Hot Ticket (32 page)

“The coverage is a gold mine,” Corsetti said. “When next you see your lady friend—”

“She’s not my lady friend,” Josh said absently, then pulled his attention away from the screen and back to Corsetti. “I mean, we just met. Don’t even know her last name.”

“That’s interesting. From up here, son, it sure looked like the two of you were very . . . friendly . . . with each other.”

“What we do is none of your business, W.C. Now, is that all you dragged me up here for?”

“No, I asked you up here so you could be sure to tell her thank you kindly.”

“For what?” Josh said.

“For being a pain-in-the-ass female, that’s what.” Corsetti accepted a fresh drink from the waiter and slurped a big sip. “Her little stunt tonight was brilliant, and if you had a hand in it, kudos to you, too.”

He raised his glass in salute.

“Don’t thank me. I sort of goaded her into it, and now look what happened.”

“Things work out for the best, son.” He all but beamed. “Her set-to with the law is the fuel we needed to help rekindle our bonfire under the city fathers. I’ve been after those old birds to shore up this antiquated structure before we all go broke.”

“She’ll be thrilled to know she took a bullet for the team.”

His sarcasm flew right over Corsetti’s head.

“I don’t mind telling you, Josh, I don’t like problems. Problems take away from the gate. And I ain’t happy with anything that takes away from the gate.”

“So what do you plan to do about it?”

“I’ve called a press conference for immediately after the game. Sit, stay, and watch us win. I sympathize with your lady friend, I surely do. But got to strike while the iron’s hot, y’know.”

Josh narrowed his eyes at Corsetti’s less-than-sympathetic tone. A press conference certainly explained a lot.

“Thanks, W.C.,” he said, “but no thanks. I’ve got some business of my own to attend to.”

“The ballsy redhead?”

“Could be.”

“Suit yourself.” Then Corsetti chuckled. “At least now you know where to go to find out her last name.”

Arena Season Week 2

I’ll call you.

But he didn’t.

In her thirty years of privileged middle-class life, Lindy had never been on the receiving end of such thoughtlessness. Okay, she was dreaming.

She knew he’d never call, predicted it, even. But deep down, she had hoped. Had hoped, too, that her hunky cowboy might feel there was something between them that needed to be explored.

That teeny flicker was enough to inspire her to glam up her everyday look and take extra care with her makeup, to wear her best moleskin pants and cashmere sweater, and to propel her out of the comfort and anonymity of her cozy house on a cold winter night and back to the scene of her crime. Besides, it wasn’t in her nature to hide out at home and fester.

Well, that and the fact that her season ticket was paid for and she hated to waste the hard-earned money.

If a well-known actor could appear on a late-night talk show
for all the world to see right after getting bagged for soliciting, then Lindy could certainly traipse across town to watch a public ball game. Easy-peasy. No one would even notice her.

That delusion lasted until Lindy strolled through the civic center’s season ticket holder’s door and she shed her coat and gloves.

Women she’d never met were suddenly calling her by name and urging, “You go, girl,” or nodding in recognition as she passed them and giving her the thumbs-up. Some men, too, although not as politely.

She hadn’t tuned in to every comment made about her arrest—the less said the better as far as she was concerned—nor was she masochistic enough to grant repeated interview requests from the local television reporters.

But her head wasn’t stuck in the sand, either.

The bit about her the newspaper printed seemed to resurrect debate about putting a new metroplex near the underdeveloped port to further diversify the local economic base. Until Lindy’s run-in with county ordinance, nary a soul got enthused about an out-of-town entertainment group hoping to make money on the backs of the taxpayers. But bring the cause closer to home, and the politicos swarmed out of the woodwork like roaches.

Now everyone, it seemed, had an opinion.

Lindy was less than thrilled to realize she’d become the poster child for downtown improvement. Gauging by her reception so far, obviously she’d been the weekly topic of conversation around more than a few water coolers.

It was going to be a long evening.

At least one thing passed the stink test for the week: Lindy walked by a slew of new portable potties lining the tunnel on her way to her seat, silent testaments to the ability of one person to shame the britches off city hall. She didn’t need to visit the upper bleachers to know potties were strategically placed in the corridors up there, too.

Once she gained her coveted sideline section, doubts about
coming bombarded her. She sat practically alone. A dozen or so empty seats peppered her small area.

Was everyone else running late? Even the bouncy old guy holding the ticket for the seat right next to her hadn’t arrived yet.

The civic center was a repeat of what Lindy had already witnessed: catchy music blaring out of the speakers—“YMCA” this time—and the smell of popcorn permeating the air, the noisy crowd filing into the stands with their cotton boxes at the ready, and the artificial turf field littered with muscled players warming up in skin-tight white pants.

Only Josh Weldon was missing from the scenario.

Lindy never expected to see or hear from him again, especially not after last week’s fiasco was splashed all across the local news. The folks at the bank where she’d worked for ten years were taking her newfound celebrity status in stride, although her mother confessed she figured Lindy had decided to forget insanity and head straight for seriously deranged.

So no one was more surprised than Lindy when, moments before the kickoff of the second game of the season, Josh Weldon appeared at her elbow. With the loose-jointed grace of an athlete, he slid his adorable jean-clad backside into the empty seat next to her.

He’d ditched the dark Stetson and turtleneck in favor of a well-worn ball cap and gray sweatshirt with a green John Deere logo embroidered across the front, and he’d shaved. Both looks suited his relaxed manner, but this week’s trim haircut and manicured nails suggested his casual outfits were the exception to his mode of dress rather than the norm.

Inwardly, she sighed. Oh, yes, she’d forgotten just how handsome he was.

“Hi there, beautiful,” he said and smiled. “I owe you a phone call.”

A preemptive strike? That certainly caught Lindy off guard.

As Josh turned to cheer on the kickoff run, she pondered how she was supposed to act righteously indignant about his lack of a
phone call when he readily admitted up front he didn’t phone. Bet he was a shrewd businessman.

This time, when he turned his attention back to her, Lindy forced herself to be impervious to the charm oozing out of that generous mouth.

“Sorry, sir, can’t place the face,” she said. “Do I know you?”

He shrugged out of his denim jacket and tossed it across the arms of the seat next to him.

“Not yet,” he said, “but we’ll fix that in short order, Miss Hamilton. See, I know your full name now. You’re famous . . . or is that
infamous
? Nice picture on the television, by the way. You do the perp walk very well.”

Laughter bubbled in his voice, as refreshing as water shimmering over rocks.

“We all have our talents,” she said, her smile tight. “Actually, I thought they captured my best side.”

“Captured? Oh, I like that.”

“Thank you. I try to keep up my end.”

“I liked the handcuffs, too. Added just the right touch of bondage.”

“Bet it made you goosepimply all over to see me in bracelets, didn’t it?”

“Am I hearing the voice of experience?”

“Like riding a biker . . . one never forgets.” She gave an exaggerated sigh and offered him her best are-you-done? smile. “Listen, this little convo’s been real, doll face, but if you don’t mind, the topic’s getting really old. I have one last word to say to you . . . scram. Well, perhaps two. Scram. Now!”

She shot snake eyes on that one. He didn’t budge, except to cross his right ankle over his left knee, set his elbows on the padded arm rests, and claim squatter’s rights by sliding comfortably down a bit farther in to the cushion of his seat.

On the field, a zebra-striped official called defensive holding against a corner back, ten-yard penalty and automatic first down. Not everyone in the stands was happy with the call.

When Lindy could hear herself over the air horns and clap sticks, she said, “You’re not going, are you?”

“Nope.”

She sighed again, crossed her own legs, and said, “Comfy?”

“I’m good. Thanks for asking. No Casey tonight?”

“His mother is a tad peeved at me at the moment.”

“Sorry to hear that. Was it a bad scene with the fam?”

“No, actually, what she had to say was short and sweet, along the lines of a snowball’s chance before she lets her son out with me again. I mean the kid’s almost a teenager, for crying out loud. She can’t coddle him forever.”

“Some mothers are touchy about jail, though.”

“Tell me about it. It’s not as if he was the one arrested. He got to see the inside of the sheriff’s office. Big deal. I like to view it as broadening his horizons.”

“I take it his mom didn’t agree with that logic?”

“Not hardly.”

“Too bad. I was looking forward to seeing my new buddy again.”

“Maybe in your next life, if my sis is talking to me by then.”

In an unexpectedly sensitive move, Josh closed his fingers around her hand and squeezed lightly, giving her a quiet jolt to the heart. Lindy fell into the kind of silence that only existed between two people in movies.

“Has it been tough this week?” Josh said.

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. The intensity of his nearness was oddly comforting.

“Awkward and mortifying,” she admitted, ducking her chin, “more than tough. But I’ll live.” She offered a wry half smile and then asked the question upper most in her mind. “Why didn’t you call? You said you would, remember?”

“I know, and I’m really sorry,” he said. “Business got in the way. I was in Tokyo. Long meetings eat up the hours, you know, and the time difference . . .”

Lindy nodded, unwilling to press him further, especially when she had no right to. He didn’t owe her an explanation. After all, it wasn’t as if they were in a bona fide relationship.

“You look good,” Josh added.

Surprised and pleased to her toes that he had noticed, she turned and stared at him.

“Thank you,” she said, then covered her self-conscious hesitation with a light laugh and pointed to the seat he was warming. “You do know you’re going to have to move when the old man comes?”

Josh let go of the hand he was holding, and Lindy’s world resumed spinning in a rush of noise.

The arena crowd roared to life as the quarterback on the opposing team tripped and threw a short pass from his knees, only to have the ball intercepted in the end zone. The Mocs trailed by seven points.

When Josh fished a ticket out of the front pocket of his jeans and flashed it at her, he said, “This is my seat now.”

She stifled the urge to grab his hand back and hang on to it. Then her eyes widened, and she stared at the ticket.

“He sold it to you?”

“Sure did.”

“Why would he do that? He seemed pretty happy with it last week.”

Josh shrugged.

“I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

Lindy started to laugh at his bravado in quoting
The Godfather
, when an incredible thought occurred to her. She sobered and gestured to the nine or so empty seats beside hers that remained in her boxed section.

“And these?” She was half-kidding when she added, “Are you going to tell me all these seats are yours, too?”

He nodded.

It took a moment, but once the implication sank in, she ran
some quick mental calculations. Nine seats times season ticket prices equaled an obscene amount of money.

Oh, my.

“Why did you do that?” she said.

“Call me greedy. I want it all . . . the section . . . the girl . . . is there a problem with that?”

“No, no problem—wait a minute, the girl?”

“Am I coming on too strong?”

Before Lindy could formulate a comeback, a safety shoved a receiver out of bounds and both players collided with the sideline barrier in front of her with a resounding
oomph
of air and an impact that landed them practically in her face.

Startled, she snatched her coat to her chest as if the flimsy fabric could keep her from being smushed by a two-hundred-thirty-pound tightend decked out in full pads. She recovered a second later and decided she’d had enough good time for one night.

“Say, I’m starved,” she said, turning to face Josh. “Are you hungry? Want to go get something to eat?”

“Now you’re playing my song, beautiful. What do you have a taste for?”

“Breakfast.”

Josh had the bizarre notion that “breakfast” meant he was going to get lucky. No quickie but an all-nighter. It was a logical conclusion for any red-blooded man to jump to.

But guess again, Tonto.

As he soon discovered, he wasn’t fluent in woman-speak. She meant she really wanted to eat breakfast for dinner.

So he put his testosterone on the back burner, left her Camry in the civic center’s parking lot, and drove her in his Hummer to the nearest Waffle House, where she could feast on a double order of kitchen sink hash browns.

Compared to the chilly wind outside, the inside of the diner felt warm and muggy. Josh helped Lindy out of her coat and placed it atop his on the bench seat next to him. Once he settled across from her, he pushed back his sweatshirt sleeves to his elbows.

Her hair was radiant red, her cheeks were flushed with cold, and Josh’s chest swelled when she looked at him with warm approval.